


leave and turn to dust

by onebatch2batch



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: AU where Karen sees ghosts, F/M, Frank isn't the Punisher, This fic gets real angsty, bear with me, ghost au, it'll be explained in time, just a warning, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-03-28 12:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13903989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onebatch2batch/pseuds/onebatch2batch
Summary: AU. Karen Page buys a house in the suburbs knowing it's haunted. That doesn't surprise her much, she's been able to see ghosts since she can remember. What does surprise her is when they ask for her help finding someone named Frank Castle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from To Build a Home - The Cinematic Orchestra
> 
> This idea is a little out there, I'll admit it lol. Please leave me some feedback and tell me what you think!!

**CHAPTER ONE**

 

When she was young, Karen came to know very quickly that she was different from the majority of the people she came in contact with. It started with innocuous questions:  _ Mommy, why is that lady looking at me? _ when no such lady existed. Or when she brought to her mother a handful of dollar bills, and when asked where she found them,  _ The little girl told me about them.  _

Her experiences were dismissed until she became distinctly aware of their importance. The first time she can actually recall her own understandings of these events was her ninth birthday. It was a rainy spring day, early in the morning when she awoke in her bed. Just inside the doorway to her room, there was a faint shimmer in the dreary half-light of the day. It was strange enough that Karen can remember her own apprehension, the cautious way she tiptoed out of bed and towards the figure. It remained in the same spot, lingered there as she came within reaching distance, and then trailed away down the hall. 

A small, cautious smile had pulled at her lips. She followed it until it had stopped outside of her parent’s bedroom door. Inside, she heard a scuffle and hushed, frantic words. The shimmer pulsed, and then phased through the door. Karen pressed her ear to the door. 

_ “Paxton. Paxton, I knew it.” _

_ “Should we tell Karen?” _

_ “No. Not, not yet. But soon.” _

Her parents conversation seemed happy, and she felt a little like she should be back in her room. Like she was spying on them. Karen stepped away towards her room and the shimmer appeared again, brushing past her. The word  _ baby  _ curled around her mind and she had stopped short. 

Just then their door had opened and there was a moment’s pause, and then her father had scooped her up with a laugh. “What are you doing up so early, birthday girl?”

Karen looked at her father seriously, then over his shoulder at her smiling mother. “I don’t know. Mommy? Are you having a baby?”

Her parents exchanged a look, and then they both let out a surprised laugh, but the edges were frayed. (Many years of her knowing things before she should would do that, after all.) “Well...yes, honey. Yes, we are. What do you think of that?”

The shimmer brightened in her peripheral as if pleased with itself; she nodded quickly, and then grinned, too distracted by the exciting news to bother with the unusual light. “That’s the best birthday present ever!"

The shimmer had then disappeared. But not for long. 

 

\--

 

Karen’s childhood was peppered with experiences like this. As she grew older, she came to realize that she was seeing what were colloquially called ghosts; and she hated using the word. It didn’t seem right to use a term that Hollywood had bastardized so far from reality. She began calling them Shimmers, and she saw them so frequently they became just one more thing for her brain to register and dismiss—much like a tree or bush. Rarely did they form into something she could say was human-like; typically they hovered lazily in her peripherals, softly glimmering clouds. They were rarely malicious or dangerous, and she had never woken to ghoulish screams or figures standing over her in her sleep. No, once they realized she could see them, usually they brushed over her like a breeze of cool air and then drifted away. Just curious shadows passing by.

There was a brief time in her life, in her early teenage years, that she did her best to research the phenomena. The Internet proved worthless. She found countless sites that explained how to best sage a home; many websites were purely speculation, but none of them seemed to be experiences like her own. Most of the sites she visited ended up giving her computer viruses so she eventually gave up and resigned herself to the fact that she would have to learn along the way. Then, life caught up and she didn’t have much time to ponder it at all.

High school was a blur until suddenly, time stood still. Her senior year flipped the world on its head.

She remembers the night clearly. Her brother wasn’t home from his friend’s yet, and her father was angrily prodding at his meatloaf. Her mother was strung tight like a spring, and then the phone rang; she rushed to pick it up as a word sunk into Karen’s brain like a stone.

_ Crash _ , it seemed to whisper, and then  _ catch her, catch her. _

Her mother’s face was white as a sheet, and Karen managed to catch her just as she started to collapse. The phone hit the floor with a clatter.  
  


\--

  
Her brother’s funeral seemed to stretch for days. Karen hated the cemetery, but she especially hated the hundreds of Shimmers, floating around like lightning bugs in the middle of summer. They flashed in and out of her peripherals, hovering over her brother’s casket as it was lowered into the ground.

That was the first time she truly wished to see a ghost. Not a light, not a Shimmer, but an actual fully formed ghost. One that had red-blond hair, and a wide gap-toothed smile. One that had freckles dusted across it’s nose. She stared hard, eyes dry, at the casket and felt her throat close up as the dirt hit the polished wood. One after another.  _ Thunk thunk thunk. _

Her brother never appeared, at least not in any form she recognized, and Karen hated the irony of it. She hated it until the bitterness filled her up and drove her away from home. She packed her bags and ran to a different city, a different state, and when she passed by the place where her brother’s car had crashed she forced her eyes forward and kept driving.

Fagan Corners fell in her rearview, and Karen Page sent up a silent plea that the Shimmers would stay with it. 

  
  


\--

 

They didn't, of course. In fact, she found the shimmers in New York to be stronger and exponentially more frequent as she began building her new life. It would be many years before she used this to her advantage.

There was a long string of jobs, from waitressing to a bank teller to a secretary. Finally, she found something that breathed a little life back into her: reporting. It had happened by accident, really, and then suddenly she was writing for the Bulletin and clawing her way to the top. It had taken a long time to find her place among the hard faces of the newsroom, but she always seemed to have just a little more intuition than everyone else. There was always a little voice (or voices) in her ear that hinted where a source might be or where a trail may lead. It was uncanny, her boss told her, but she climbed the rungs of success nonetheless.

Eventually she finds herself looking for a home outside the city with a sizeable bank account to back herself up. She visits house after house but none of them feel right. The windows are too small, or the yard too big, or the carpets too ugly. None of them say  **home** in that way she’s afraid she’ll never feel again.

That is, until she pulls into the driveway of a white two-story house with an American flag jutted past the front step.

Karen gets out of her car and looks up at the house in consideration, eyes wandering over the elevated front porch and the windowed front door. When she turns to watch her realtor pull in after her, she notices  **CASTLE** posted in faded lettering across the mailbox.

_ Castle fit for a queen _ , she thinks to herself, and then smiles when her realtor steps out of his car.

“Heya, Karen,” Foggy Nelson calls, waving. He’s a short, stocky man with long blonde hair pushed back behind his ears. She feels a familiar surge of fondness as he rambles over, grinning. It was by pure luck she had met Foggy at a mutual friend’s birthday party, and when the topic had turned to her search for a new place, he’d lit up excitedly. Now he’s more friend than realtor and she’s come to enjoy these excursions, even if they haven’t been having much luck. Thankfully he’s patient with her and understanding that she’s searching for a home rather than a house, and doesn’t complain. He’s funny and sharp, and she enjoys his company immensely. He reminds her of a little of her brother, if she’s honest.

“Hey, Fog,” she says. “This one is a little big, isn’t it?”

She had almost double checked her GPS after pulling in but the sign in the front lawn had assured her this was the place. It’s huge, and far too much space for her and the occasional visitor. And most certainly out of her price range. Foggy scratches his head, looking up at it with a nervous grimace.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says candidly, “but it’s well under your budget.” At her surprised expression, he gestures and starts up the front steps. “Come on, let’s just take a look.”

The house is beautiful, she can’t deny that; they go from room to room, peering in closets and disturbing the dust. There are three bedrooms of varying sizes, two baths and a large kitchen. A fireplace nestles comfortably in the living room, and there’s a door leading down to an unfinished basement. The backyard is huge, and there’s an old playset off to the side. It looks like it hasn’t been touched in years—in fact, most of the house looks that way.

Despite that, Karen walks through listening to Foggy rattle off facts about the house, and feels an inkling of excitement running down her spine.

They rejoin back in the kitchen and Karen brushes her fingers over the dust covered countertops, frowning. “Alright Foggy, what’s wrong with it?”

He gives her a look that says he was hoping she wouldn’t ask. It’s hot in the house, the autumn heat creeping inside and stifling them, and there’s a trickle of sweat creeping down his temple. Karen turns and throws open a window, letting in the cool breeze. Foggy sighs gratefully. “Well…people around here say it’s…haunted.”

Karen startles, then barks out a laugh before she can help it. “Is that all?”

He huffs. “You know how many people I’ve shown this place to, Kare? It even creeps me out, honestly. I’ve been stuck with it for a year. And the realtor before me? Years. Plural.”

Karen hums, letting her gaze wander around the kitchen. If she focuses she can feel it; that slight hum underneath it all saying there’s something more. Something extra. Something  _ different _ . It’s a feeling she’s grown so accustomed to, she’d automatically tuned it out upon entering. She looks back at Foggy. “There’s nothing else wrong with it?”

He tries for a smile but it’s a little nervous, a little too flat. “Nope. Whoever did live here, they kept it in good shape. We’ll get an inspection, obviously but…just the ghosts.”

**CASTLE** flashes across her mind again. Karen nods and lays her hands flat on the counter. “I like it,” she declares. “On one condition.”

Foggy looks equal parts relieved and anxious. “What’s that?”

She grins at him. “You going to be too much of a wuss to come over for a beer or two?”

He shakes his head in admiration, giving her a wayward smile. “Nothing could stop me from having a beer or two with you, Kare. Not even the ghosts.”

They set up a date to sign the paperwork, and Karen pulls out of the Castle house’s driveway and thinks  _ home _ for the first time in a long time. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a hard time fitting this all into three chapters so I upped it to four. Let me know what you think! :)

Karen walks through her apartment one last time with an odd feeling settling in her chest. This has been her place for years—she knows every stain on the carpet, recognizes every voice that comes through the thin walls, is unafraid of the creaking elevator anymore. She won’t miss it, not really, but she imagines she’ll miss the ten-minute walk to work that had originally convinced her to rent the place.

She casts one last glance around, and then flips off the light and goes downstairs to return her keys.

She has a house to unpack.

\--

The living room of the formerly-Castle-now-Page home is an explosion of boxes. They’re strewn about, stacked on top of one another, and Karen stands in the middle of it all, at a loss of where to begin.

She’s still debating the best plan of action when Jessica Jones walks in the room, Trish Walker in tow. Karen pushes her hair out of her face and gives them both an apologetic look; she had bribed them both with alcohol and take out, but this seems like it’s going to be a multi-day project--even with Jess’ frightening strength and Trish’s organizational skills.

“This place is huge, Kare,” Trish says for about the hundredth time. “What are you going to do with all this space?”

Karen sighs. “I don’t know. I might be a little in over my head, here.”

“You don’t say,” Jess says dryly. “Didn’t you say this place was stupid cheap?”

“Yep.” Karen turns and surveys the mantle critically. She’s been agonizing over this particular part of the room for days now. What do people put on mantles? Pictures of their family? Decorative artwork? Having an actual home means she’s going to have to start color coordinating towels and matching her furniture with the décor, right? “I should put something above the mantle, shouldn’t I?”

Jess huffs. “So what’s wrong with the place?” she asks as Trish says, “Yeah, maybe a mirror or something.”

“Huh?” Karen glances over her shoulder, then turns back to picture a mirror, distracted.  “Oh, it’s haunted. You think a mirror? I was thinking maybe a painting…”

A pin could drop in the silence. Trish chuckles nervously. “Wait, Karen, seriously? Haunted?”

Her tone makes Karen turn back around, and she shrugs at their incredulous expressions. Jess seems a little less anxious than Trish, but they’re both gazing around the room as if something will pop out at any moment. “That’s what Foggy says, at least. I haven’t seen anything yet—although there was an open cabinet the other day, but I think that was just me.”

Trish and Jess had taken the news of her ‘abilities’ rather well, considering. She hadn’t told them for years after meeting them, partially because it was such a small part of her day-to-day routine, and partially because she didn’t want to seem crazy in front of some of her only friends. She had met them both in her boxing class—Trish had been a regular, and Jess a reluctant shadow. The three women had hit it off almost immediately, which Karen is endlessly grateful for.

But maybe she should have told them about the  _ conditions _ of the house before enlisting their help.

There’s a pause, and then Jess throws her head back and laughs. “Damn, blondie. Are we talking bad ghosts or good ghosts? Should I grab the sage?”

“No such thing.” Karen rolls her eyes, squatting down to rifle through a box. “They’re either lights or fuzzy outlines. I’ve only ever seen one that actually looked like a real person—and she didn’t keep the form for long. And anyways, I’ve never met a ‘bad’ one.”

Trish looks interested but wary. “But you haven’t seen one here, yet?”

“No, not yet. Although tonight is my first night actually staying here, so I’m sure I’ll see them.” Karen rips open a box, and then pauses in consideration. “I’ve been seeing them all my life. If I have to share a house with one to get it super cheap, I’m in. And anyways…it makes it a little less lonely.”

Trish and Jess exchange a look over her head, then turn to continue with the unpacking. They don’t ask any more questions, but Karen catches them peering into dark corners much longer than usual for the rest of the day.

\--

It takes all of twenty-four hours for Karen to meet her permanent houseguest. She’s standing outside in the cool autumn breeze, carefully peeling  **CASTLE** off the mailbox. The  **C** is crumpled in her hand and she’s just peeling off the  **A** when she feels it: the soft hum behind her eyes that tells her someone (or something) is watching her. She pauses, hands stilling on the mailbox, and looks up slowly.

On the other side of the mailbox, standing on the paved driveway, is a woman. Although she’s not really a woman, since Karen can see right through her to the yard next door. She has long, dark hair that tumbles over her shoulder in soft curls. Her dress is a light purple, something Karen might see on someone walking around a shopping mall. Her eyes are dark and inquisitive, and she’s watching Karen with something like a frown. Her edges shift and bleed into the surrounding air like watercolors.

_ This is new _ , Karen thinks to herself, straightening. Typically the Shimmers aren’t this solid, nor do they stare at her in a way that makes her this nervous. Never has she looked one in the eyes--eyes that are so well-defined that she could count the individual eyelashes, if she so pleased--and had a conversation with them, as one sided as it may be.

She casts a furtive glance around, but on midday Tuesday she doesn’t see anyone else about. “Hello,” she says cautiously, turning back to the woman, “I’m Karen.”

The woman’s frown deepens. Her eyes drift down accusingly to the crumpled  **C** in her hand and Karen follows her gaze. “I just moved in,” she explains lamely, suddenly feeling ashamed.

Movies and television say that ghosts can only haunt where they died, but Karen has experienced many things that aren’t on TV or in movies. For all she knows, a person passes and then returns to the place they’re most comfortable with. What she does know, deep down, is that this woman is Mrs. Castle, and Karen is ripping her name off the mailbox.  

Mrs. Castle looks away, at the house. Her expression can only be described as tender—and overwhelmingly sad. Karen stands completely still, giving her time to answer. 

She doesn’t; instead she looks back at the mailbox and seems to sigh before fizzling out of existence before Karen’s very eyes.

After a full minute of bated breath where Karen waits for her to reappear, she realizes that was it. She looks around and then shakes her head, crouching back down to continue her task.

The – **ASTLE** fights her fingers as if there’s an invisible hand holding them, pressed, against the mailbox.

\--

Her new home is coming along nicely. It’s been a long time since she’s used that word (home has always brought memories of her brother laughing, her father’s reading glasses, her mother’s cooking warming her belly) and she’s grateful at how right it feels, using it.

She’s less grateful for the renovations. It’s a Saturday afternoon when she steps into one of the bedrooms, armed with paint and a rolling brush. It’s been nearly a week since she moved in and most of the house is finished. The kitchen is unpacked and cleaned, the bathrooms stocked with towels and toilet paper, and the living room is decorated with new furniture and a painting above the fireplace. The bedrooms are next on her to-do list. She’s not entirely sure what she’ll do with the two spare rooms, even though one of them is sure to be converted into an office. 

She stares around the first spare room and feels a pang of sadness; the walls are covered in stickers of planets and dinosaurs. There’s a border about the height of her hip wrapped around the room. Owls in different shades of pink and purple stare at her from every angle.

_ That wallpaper is going to be a bitch to get off, _ she thinks, setting down her paint can on the plastic-covered floor. Armed with her spray bottle, she steps forward and begins to douse the wallpaper in water. She wanders the perimeter of the room and hums to herself. When she turns to pick up her scraping tool, she realizes it’s gone.

Karen spins in a tight circle, eyes scanning the floor until she sees a pair of sneakers semi-blocking her vision. She stares right through them to her scraper, and then trails her gaze up and peers into the face of a young girl. She looks similar to the woman from before: same nose, same long hair but pulled back away from her face, same unearthly frown. Karen straightens and steps back respectfully. The girl opens her mouth and then shuts it, as if unsure.

Karen isn’t sure what to think. This is twice in one week, third in her lifetime, that she’s seen Shimmers in the shape of actual people. For about the millionth time, she wishes there was some kind of manual to all of this. 

“Hello,” she says softly after she’s gathered herself. “What’s your name?”

She has communicated with the Shimmers before, but it’s not verbal. She likes to compare it to telepathy; their words blossom in her mind, unbidden. Usually it’s only a word or two, as if it’s too much effort to do anything more than that. It fascinates her every time.

 

The girl blinks and then Karen hears it. Faintly, quietly, like the words are coming from the air itself.   _ What….you doing…..owls…. _

Karen realizes this is the girl’s room. She’s talking (mind-thinking?) with a young dead girl, and she’s defacing her room without permission. She grimaces and looks around; kids have never been her strong suit to begin with. Let alone  _ dead _ kids. “Well...I’m taking down the wallpaper. Is that okay?”

The girl looks at her, and then her gaze strays away to the bubbling wallpaper forlornly.  _ Dad did that… _

God, what had happened in this house? To this family? She assumes the first ghost, the woman, is the girl’s mother. Had her father died too? What about the third room--is there someone else, too? It’s all getting to be a little too much, and Karen closes her eyes in an effort to steady herself. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slow, and when she opens her eyes the girl is gone.

Karen thinks  _ I’m an asshole _ and then turns back to the wallpaper, scraper in hand, mind going a mile a minute.

\--

 

Foggy, true to his word, comes over once most of the boxes are unpacked. He arrives with a bottle of wine and a bushel of sage, making her roll her eyes in good-natured irritation. She takes him through the house to show him the new furniture, the painted walls, her simple minimalistic décor.

“This looks like a whole new house, Kare,” he says as they steps back into the kitchen to open the wine bottle.

She can’t help but feel a little prideful at that; she’s happy with the progress she’s made on the house. Hearing it from someone else only makes her that much better. She pours two glasses of the wine and grins. “Thanks. Maybe I should change careers. Karen Page, interior design.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he snickers. “There’s still a box over there.”

She glances over at the box in the corner and sighs. “Yeah, just little stuff I don’t know what to do with. It needs to go in the basement.”

It’s one of the final boxes she has yet to put in it’s proper place. Nearly everything else is done—she may as well just put it downstairs before it sits there for the next month. She tells Foggy she’ll be back in a minute, laughs at his slightly panicked look, and takes the box into the basement.

Even she’ll admit the basement creeps her out a little. It’s a large, open space with shelves along the fall wall. The lighting is dim and the air is chilly and wet. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she stands and lets her eyes adjust to the half-darkness. Her next step is halted suddenly when she registers the figure in the corner is not, in fact, a shadow.

It’s a boy.

Her body tenses on instinct. He’s standing on the far side of the room and although he’s fully formed, his outline is much fuzzier than the previous two. His glare is cold and angry and the air between them prickles with electricity. Karen sets down her box carefully. This Shimmer is different, she knows; he’s unstable and so young it makes her chest ache. She stands there for a moment, debating what to do.

_ Get out. _

Karen’s eyes snap to his, alarmed. He hasn’t moved from the corner, but the light flickers above her head.

_ Get out get out. You DON’T live here. _

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, strangled. She’s never seen a Shimmer make lights flicker. Or glare at her with such point blank anger; she takes a step back. “I’m sorry, but I do.”

His mouth drops open in a shriek of childish fury and the box at her feet tumbles, contents flying out. Karen gasps, covering her mouth in shock. The boy continues to shriek, his form squirming around the edges, until she cries out, “Please, stop!”

The boy stops. He stares at her. He should be breathless, but he is immobile. Then, he turns his head as if called and he’s gone faster than she can blink. Karen looks around the room quickly, goose bumps prickling her skin. She decides she can pick up the box later and takes the stairs as calmly as she can, blood pounding in her ears.

Foggy is standing at the top of the landing, pale. “Please tell me you just dropped the box, Karen.”

“Um…”

“Karen, are there actual ghosts here? Is it actually, for real haunted?”

She pushes her hair back away from her face, taking a calming breath. “Yeah. There’s three of them. I mean, three that I’ve seen.”

“Jesus, Kare.” He looks at the darkness leading to the basement, swallowing. “And are they all--...you know, violent?”

“I don’t think he was violent. I just—god, Foggy, he was so young. He wasn’t even a teenager.” Karen takes a drink of her wine with her pulse still roaring in her ears. Her week has been full of firsts: the first time she’s seen three fully formed Shimmers in one place, the first time they’ve spoken to her in full sentences, the first time one has been physical. She’s scared—not of the Shimmers, but of what had happened to cause this. She meets Foggy’s concerned eyes and straightens determinedly.

“I need to do some research on this.  Figure out what the hell happened here.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this!! Just a fair warning...the next one is angst. Angst angst and oh yeah, more angst. And a little happy towards the end...I don't believe in unhappy endings in fanfics

It’s a Sunday morning when Karen Page sits down at her kitchen island armed with a mug of coffee and her laptop. Somewhere outside there’s a leaf blower clearing a driveway, and the sound of kids playing outside comes in through her open windows. Inside all Karen hears is the sound of the coffee pot settling, and her own fingers on the keyboard. She pulls up Google, flexes her fingers in thought, and then types ‘Castle family’ into the search bar.

The search results make her stomach flip uncomfortably.

 **Suburban Horror Story, Robbery Gone Wrong** is the first result. It’s an article from nearly six year ago—she clicks it and sucks in a sharp breath. There on her screen is a picture of her home surrounded by police, ambulances, and fire trucks. Police tape is everywhere and crowds of people stand outside the perimeter of it, huddled in groups. Karen scrolls past it and begins to read.

> _Horror has fallen upon a quiet suburban home in the early morning of April 14. The home of the Castles, a military family, was the victim of an attempted robbery gone south. Frank Castle, husband and father as well as decorated Marine, was home for leave when the robbers broke in. He was asleep upstairs when the men broke into the home, first opening fire on his wife, Maria Castle, and then moving onto the children, Frank Jr. and Lisa Castle. The gunshots alerted the neighbors who then called 911. By the time the police reached the home, Frank Castle had chased off the invaders but was shot in the head. He is currently in intensive care, but the family—_

Karen closes her laptop with an audible snap and grinds the heels of her hands into her eyes, taking a shuddering breath. Her chest is tight with emotion and there is a pressure building behind her eyes that tells her she’s close to tears.

“Okay, Karen,” she mutters, “You knew it was haunted. You knew something bad had to have happened. There’s nothing you can do. You just—you live in a home where three people were killed. It’s fine.”

She ignores the way her voice cracks, trying to convince herself it’s true. For several minutes she sits hunched over this way until a burst of cold air hits her spine. Her head jerks up and there she is, Maria Castle, watching her from across the island. Her expression is pained but tender, and Karen crumples.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “Is there anything I can do?”

Maria reaches over the counter with a sad little smile, her fingers brushing Karen’s computer. She furrows her brows like she’s concentrating, and then when she looks up to meet Karen’s gaze one words screams it’s way into her thoughts:

_FRANK._

Karen jolts back, wincing. The voice was loud enough to give her a headache and Maria looks a little apologetic about that, but more urgent than anything. “Frank?” she says once the throbbing in her temples has calmed slightly, “You want me to find him? Find your husband?”

Maria smiles, relived and excited. She moves closer; her lower half dissipates once it comes in contact with the counter but she doesn’t seem to notice. _Find Frank._

Karen tucks her hair behind her ears nervously. “But what…what do I tell him? What do I say?”

The other woman has already begun to fade from view. She gives Karen a pleading look and reaches out. _Please_ , she says, softer this time.

She’s gone by the time Karen can think to nod and she’s left staring at the emptiness of her kitchen, shell-shocked and alone.

 

\--

 

Karen taps her pen in an insistence rhythm, staring hard at her computer screen. It’s been three days since Maria Castle had come to her asking for help. For what, she’s still unsure of. Three days of searching, of hoping, of waiting. So far she hasn’t found any evidence of Frank Castle; it’s as if the man had completely disappeared. No paper trail, no bank account, nothing. He was just gone.

His family, on the other hand, has frequented her waking hours more and more. Lisa trails after her in the mornings, watching her put on her make up with curious eyes. Maria makes herself at home in the kitchen, looking more anxious and harried with each passing day. Frank Jr. has calmed from their last interaction—he stands in corners and watches her forlornly. It’s a little unsettling to have their attention at all hours of the day, but she understands.

She can only imagine what Kevin would have said, given a second chance.

She lets her head fall against her chair and sighs. It’s nearly lunchtime, and through the doorway of her office she can see some of her coworkers gathering, throwing on jackets. She doesn’t realize she’s staring until Ellison raises a brow, walking towards her.

“Page,” he greets. “You haven’t moved all day. Stuck on a piece?”

She sighs, leaning back. “It’s not for a story.”

His brows raise in mock surprise. “Karen Page working on something personal? Are you sick?”

“Ha. Ha.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to find someone. Do you know anything about the Castle family?”

Ellison tilts his head, then takes his glasses and cleans them slowly. It’s a tick of his; he does it when he’s planning his next words or needs a moment to think before answering. When he perches the specs back on his nose he gives her a poorly concealed look of intrigue. “Only by headlines. The family that was killed a couple years back, right?”

She nods. “I’m looking for the husband. Frank Castle.”

Silence fills the air between them. He leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms. “…why?”

There’s no good answer to his question that wont make her sound crazy. She clears her throat and averts her eyes. “I, um, I bought his house.”

“You _what_?”

It’s the paternal concern in his voice that makes her remember he’s got two kids under the age of twelve at home. She huffs, feeling the lecture coming. “It’s not that bad. It’s a nice house, and I got a deal.”

“Yeah, because three people _died_ in it. That’s—that’s morbid, Karen. Why do you want to find him?”

 _Well boss, his dead wife and two dead kids want me to, that’s why._ Karen rubs her temples, grimacing. “I, uh…found some stuff in the basement. It looks important. I don’t want to toss it.”

He looks like he’s considering an intervention. A beat of silence passes where he searches her tight expression, and then he shakes his head slowly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. You try the officer on duty that night?”

She hadn’t, and she’s a little disappointed in herself for that. Ellison only gives her a concern look when she shakes her head. “You ever think he may not want that stuff? That it might bring up old ghosts?”

Karen turns back to her computer, grim. “I don’t think he needs any help with that.”

Ellison sighs from the doorway but after realizing that she’s already begun her search online, he turns and exits with one last concerned glance.

 

\--

 

Digging back 5 years really isn’t as hard as it seems. A couple phone calls here, some well placed pressure there, and then she’s on the line with one Brent Mahoney, one of the cops on the scene of the Castle murders.

He takes her call with a long sigh. She can hear chatter ad phones ringing in the background. “ _Miss Page_ ,” he says, “ _Bulletin reporter and general pain in my precinct’s ass. What can I do for you_?”

Karen huffs, smiling. Police and reporters have a tenuous relationship--she can’t blame him for his wariness. “I’m not looking for trouble. This is personal, actually.”

There’s a surprised pause. “ _What is it_?” He asks finally, curiosity winning.

She debates easing him into the conversation, but beating around the bush has never really been her style. “I need to know what happened to Frank Castle.”

“... _Frank Castle of the Castle family robbery-murders_?”

“The very same.” Karen clears her throat. “Do you know where he might be?”

“ _No clue_ ,” Brett says, but there’s a catch in his voice that makes the journalist in her stretch her claws. He’s holding back.

“Brett,” she pleads, “I’m trying to do a good thing, here.”

“ _Didn’t know journalists did that kinda thing_ ,” he huffs, but she hears the joke. She rolls her eyes. After a tense pause, he sighs and she knows she has him. “ _Alright, alright. He’s living in New York, last I heard. We, uh...there was an investigation_.”

“Recently?” At his silence, she frowns. “Off the record.”

“ _Off the record...yes. About a year ago. We found three guys dead in an alleyway. They were the same guys that killed the Castles. There was no evidence of anybody else there and when we brought in Castle, his alibi was airtight. But uh, yeah. He’s around here somewhere, I think_.”

“Any chance you’d know where to find him?”

“ _Sure don’t. And to be honest, I don’t think I’d want to--who knows what that shit can do to a guy. Question is, why do_ you _want to find him_?”

“If I tried to explain you’d think I was crazy.”

“ _You already got that covered. Good luck, Miss Page. Keep yourself out of trouble._ ”

Karen hangs up the phone and rubs her temples. She’s got more questions than she started with, and no answers in sight.

 

\--

 

“I can’t exactly advertise it,” Karen says later that night, frustrated. She’s stirring a pot of mac and cheese a little harsher than necessarily, cradling her phone in the juncture of her shoulder. “FRANK CASTLE, VISIT THE PLACE YOUR FAMILY WAS MURDERED. I can just see it now.”

Trish’s voice is tentative in her ear. “ _Why are you trying to find him again, Kare_?”

Karen feels a chill and glances over to find Lisa watching her curiously. She smiles, and then turns back to her stirring. “I just--I do, okay? I know it’s hard to understand. I’m sorry to put this on you.”

“ _No, it’s okay. I don’t have to understand to be, you know, supportive. But Kare...what if you_ did _advertise it_?”

She pauses, switching her phone to the other ear. “Huh?”

Trish says something away from the speaker, then comes back with a frustrated sigh. “ _Look, I gotta go. But why don’t you put something in the paper that will make him come back to the house? Try getting his attention instead of trying to find him?_ ”

“Yeah, maybe.” Karen lets her spoon fall, mind racing. “Yeah, okay, maybe. Thanks Trish.”

“ _You got it. Be careful_.”

Her phone beeps and she turns, rifling through her bag to pull out her laptop. Lisa has long since disappeared and she frowns a little, thinking. The little black line blinks at her tauntingly and her headache grows until a frustrated sigh escapes her lips. She lets her head thunk down onto the counter and sighs.

 _Demolition_ , she hears from far away. It’s in the same, lilting voice she’s come to recognize as Maria. When she lifts her head, the apparition is looking at her from the doorway expectantly.

“Demolition?” Karen prompts, curious. “What do you mean?”

 _Too many memories._ Maria gestures around vaguely. _Wont let it…_

“He won’t want it to be torn down.” Karen’s eyes widen in understanding and she leans back over her computer with renewed energy. Nervousness buzzes in her veins as she begins to type.

> _Castle House Set for Demolition: The House that saw such tragedy half a decade ago, the Castle home, is set for demolition tomorrow. After nearly six years of vacancy following the horrific murders of…_

Karen writes and rewrites the article over and over. She leans over her computer until well past dark, and when she’s finally pulled back to the present by her stomach growling, her mac and cheese is ice cold. She warms up a bowl and emails the draft over to Ellison for review, feeling like she’s finally doing something proactive.

And hopefully, she thinks, something she won’t regret.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Bree (@frankcastlestanktop on tumblr) for the wonderful editing and insight which always makes my work about a million times better. Thank you, friend! 
> 
> As for technical notes, thank you for your patience! Now that my vacation is over I'm going to get in gear with finishing my prompts and ongoing fics. Also, there will be an epilogue to this in Frank's POV just because. Thank you for reading and as always, any comments or kudos make me the happiest Kastle writer ever xoxoxo

She doesn’t have to wait long.

Karen takes the next day off of work to wander the house. There is absolutely no guarantee that her plan will work, even if Maria is convinced it will. The Castles hover anxiously as Karen paces and the morning drags on. The anticipation builds until Karen thinks she’s going to suffocate in it. She feels much like a ghost herself, hovering in uncertainty.

“What do I even say?” She asks the room. No one answers—not that she expects them to.

Frankie vibrates with the sort of excitement only a child can sustain. He shimmers in and out of sight, following Karen from room to room. Lisa sits on the couch and tugs at her ponytails, eyes glued to the door. Maria stands in the front window, her gaze following Karen’s path. Karen feels as if the entire house is holding its breath. At half past two, there’s a knock on the door.

Maria glides towards it and then stops, an aborted movement of hope. She gives Karen a pleading look.

Karen takes a steadying breath and opens the door.

The man in front of her is different from the pictures. His head of wild curls is a far cry from the high and tight military cut of his family portrait. His beard is long but neatly trimmed. His eyes are wary, full of caution and something raw.    
  
Karen gives him a timid smile. “Frank Castle?” 

He searches the room, seemingly unable to see the spirits gathered behind her. “Who’s askin’?”

For just a moment, Karen tries to imagine what he must be feeling. This is the home where his family was murdered and where a bullet almost ended his life. A stranger, opens the door, expecting him.    
  
Karen tracks the change in his face as he realizes the house isn’t being demolished.    
  
It would be enough to put anyone on edge. Karen steps aside and gestures, trying to morph her features into something resembling reassurance. “Karen Page. Please, come in.”

(Cold air hits her back; Frankie is overjoyed and his voice fills her ears.  _ Dad!) _

Frank steps inside cautiously. “No crew, no machines. Guess demolition is cancelled?”    
  
His posture reminds her of a trapped animal searching for a way out. 

“No, it’s not. I, um, was told this was the best way to find you.”

He stops short, scans her as if she’s materialized out of thin air. Karen can’t help but feel as if he’s measuring her up.    
  
“Who... Who’s told you that?”

She realizes that whatever comes out of her mouth next will sound absolutely insane. He may even think she’s poking fun at his misery. The thought makes her second-guess this entire plan. She thinks again, _what the hell am I doing?_   
  
Karen hesitates, wrings her hands, and glances over as Maria draws up to her side. The ghost’s gaze is intense; grateful. Maria passes her fingers over Karen’s arm in encouragement. The chill draws goose bumps.

Frank makes a choked sound of surprise.

“Maria?” His voice is broken and raw and terrified all at once.

“You can see her?” Karen whispers as Maria’s hand pulls away in shock.

As the cold leaves Karen’s skin, Frank makes a small noise of distress. “I don’t understand...” He takes a short, investigative step forward. “Is she—was that—real?”

Never in her life has Karen thought of her ability to see ghosts as something useful. As something that she can use to help others—but the look on Frank Castle’s face makes her think that maybe, just maybe, she’s wrong.    
  
She never had closure after Kevin’s death. For years Karen had wondered why, given her abilities, she was the only one unable to move on. Watching Frank now, as his eyes search the room fruitlessly, unable to see the faces of his family, she realizes the truth:  _  I know how he feels— I can help others like him to find peace. _

A feeling of calm washes over her. “Here.” She gently takes his hand. He grips her fingers tight and takes a sharp breath.

“Maria,” he whispers, taking half a step towards her. “Baby, you, you’re—what--…”

Maria cups his cheek and gives him a small smile as her fingers pass through him. Even half-formed and shimmering image the tears in her eyes are clear.  _ I asked Karen to find you. _

Frank looks like a drowning man who has just tasted the air again. Karen’s hand is starting to ache, but she doesn’t dare pull away. She closes her eyes to focus. When Frank makes a small, heartbroken sound she knows Frankie and Lisa have appeared. They look up at their father in wide-eyed wonder.    
  
The devastation on Frank’s face is palpable.

“I’m sorry,” he says,, tears making his voice thick. The sound closes her own throat with emotion.    
  
“I should’ve—I didn’t protect you…”

Karen wonders how she would react if she were in Frank’s shoes. If Kevin appeared and spoke to her after all this time. She imagines what it would mean to have another chance to see him, talk to him, memorize the way he smiled and moved. It’s hard to picture without feeling the familiar sadness filling up her chest. Frank must feel the same, but more fresh; closer to the bone. He’s mourning their loss all over again; his wife; his children; his home. Karen is acutely aware of her outsider status. Only Frank’s hand, squeezing hers to the point of aching, tells her she’s welcome.

Lisa bites her lip.  _ Dad! It’s not your fault. _  She steps closer and offers him a sad smile. Frank reaches for his daughter. Karen looks away from how the tears run down his cheeks, how his lip trembles. The emotion is overwhelming.

_ Don’t cry, Dad,  _ Frankie begs, face scrunching up.  _ We’re right here. _

_ Honey _ , Maria interjects before Frank can respond,  _ I know you. I know that you’re torturing yourself. Stop.  _

“How’m I supposed to—to pretend like it’s okay? I came home and lost you, and the kids, and I just—fuck.” He takes a ragged breath. “I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to… _ we _ were supposed to grow old together.” He reaches out but his fingers pass right through her arm. He jerks back as if burned.

Maria is tender when she replies.  _ I know. And I know you’re punishing yourself. That’s bullshit, Frank. It was an accident and you handled it. Right? _

Frank pulls his mouth in a deep frown. Maria smiles.  _ It’s been five years. iI’s time to move on. It’s time for  _ us  _ to move on. _

“I don’t know how.” His voice is small.

Karen realizes Maria is almost completely transparent. Her outline fades as if being drained away.  _ I wish I could help you, Frank. But honey…you have to let people in. If you don’t… _ She flickers, frowns.

Frank turns to Karen, desperate. “Can you—can you do somethin’?”

“I’m sorry,” Karen whispers, her voice hoarse. “This is all new to me. I didn’t even know I could do this. I don’t know the limits or…”

Lisa akes her mother’s hand. She looks at her father with sadness and relief.  _ We love you, Dad. We want you to be happy. _

Karen wants to step out let them share these last moments; to say goodbye and find peace. She’s anchored here though, audience to their quiet voices and soft tears. She watches as first Frankie disappears, then Lisa, and then it’s just Frank and Maria’s fading shape., The couple stand just inches apart, unable to even brush fingers. She smiles softly.

_ Karen, thank you for everything. Please...if it’s not too much...keep an eye on him. You’ve done so much already— _

“I will, I promise,” Karen replies with a watery smile. “I hope you find some peace.”

Maria gives her husband a tender look.  _ You’ve always loved so hard, Frank. Don’t let it ruin you.  _

“I love you, Maria,” he manages through choked tears. Then, like sunset, the ghosts are gone. The house falls into a deep quiet.    
  
Only Frank and Karen remain. They stand shoulder to shoulder, the weight of the moment sinking in. Karen begins to step away, but Frank’s hand tightens on hers. He’s staring at the place where Maria had been. His expression is a mix of shock and sadness. Minutes pass in silence. Karen feels exhausted and her eyes are wet.

After some time, she squeezes his fingers gently. “Want some coffee?” 

There’s a moment’s pause before Frank unravels their hands, nodding slowly. Together, they leave the living room. In the kitchen Karen starts the coffee maker, and Frank takes the stairs to second floor. Her hand tingles as she blood comes rushing back and she rubs it absently, watching the drip. His slow footsteps sound overhead, but beyond that the house is eerily quiet. The little hum, the pressure in the air that accompanied the Maria and the children has dissipated with the spirits..

Frank clears his throat behind her. Lost in thought, Karen startles and turns to find him exploring the kitchen a little awkwardly. His eyes are red-rimmed but dry.    
  
“Been, uh, a long time since...since I’ve been here.” 

Unsure of how to answer, Karen focuses on the task at hand, She pours coffee for them both, “Black?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

They stand on opposite sides of the kitchen island and look everywhere but at each other. Karen sneaks a glance and it’s clear Frank isn’t here with her, not really. His face is drawn and tired, lost in thought.

“Was this the right thing to do?” She blurts out when the silence comes to be too much. Frank blinks at her, almost surprised to find her in front of him.

“Karen, I uh...I can never repay you for this.” He leans on the counter and rubs his neck. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s all….”

“A little much?”

He returns her timid smile. “Yeah. Tell you the truth, I could use something a little stronger than coffee.”

“I think I’ve got some Bailey’s around here,” Karen offers. “If you’re into drinking on a Tuesday with a stranger.” 

He looks relieved. Not quite amused, but close. “I think you’re on t’somethin’.”

\--

Karen gets to know Frank very well, very quickly.

She orders a pizza and they drink coffee dashed with Bailey’s until it arrives. It’s hard to unpack everything that’s happened, but they try. Slowly.

“How are you, you know...feeling about it?” She asks on their second round. Frank’s staring around the living room with a far-off expression, as if he’s trying to replace her meager decor with furnishings remembered from six years ago. He sighs.

“I, uh...don’t know. I wasn’t expectin’ all—this.”

Karen takes another sip of her coffee. “I had a brother,” she says slowly,  “He died when he was sixteen. Car crash. Um, not that it compares, but...I thought I would be able to see him again. One more time, you know? I never did, though. It’s like some big cosmic joke.” She laughs without humour.    
  
“Can’t see my own brother but I can see any other ghost…”

Frank swallows some coffee, considering. “Have you always been able to see them?”

“Far as I can remember. I usually don’t have much control over where or when or how.”

There’s a familiar expression on his face that says  _ I’m not sure what to think about this _ . It also says  _ My whole perception of reality has been flipped on its head _ .    
  
She’s seen the look before.    
  
“I’m sorry about your brother,” he offers, then hesitates before continuing, “Have you met anyone else… like you?”

“Other than in movies?” She laughs. “No, no one else. Just me, so far.”

Frank sighs, letting his head drop back on the couch. “I dunno what to do now - been hangin’ on to this... _ anger _ for so long…”

“Maria loved you so much,” she hears herself saying. “The kids, too. I don’t want to overstep but—they want you to be happy,. I think you should do anything that makes that possible, Mr. Castle.” She shrugs.

He turns his head to look at her, mulling it over. Then, with a small smile that is mostly in the corners of his eyes, he says softly, “Just Frank.” 

Karen smiles, then takes their empty cups for a refill.

\--

“Can I, uh, see you again?”

It’s late. Frank is standing in the doorway (his doorway), twisting his beanie over in his hands. He’s looking at her under his lashes, lips twisted into a nervous smile.

It’s been a long day, and an even longer night, but Karen feels a satisfied glow rather than exhaustion. Frank is good company, even after such an emotionally draining evening. She holds out a hand for his phone. She puts in her number, hands it back and steps forward to wrap him in a hug before she can talk herself out of it.

“Whenever you want, Frank. I made a promise and I don’t intend on breaking it.”

He laughs. “I don’t need a babysitter, Karen.”

“No,” Karen clasps his hands in her own. “You need a friend.”

His eyes are so soft it makes her chest ache. He leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek, his beard scratching her lightly. “Thank you. For everything. I uh, I can’t repay you.”

“Don’t be a stranger!” She calls as he steps down the walkway. He turns, looking up at her and then his eyes rover across the face of the house slowly, as if he’s seeing it in a new light. He returns his gaze to hers and smiles.

“Don’t intend to. Good night, Karen.”

She watches him walk down the front steps and disappear into the darkness. Even though Maria and the kids are gone, and even though she’s alone, Karen feels more content than she has in a long time. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For whatever reason, this was an incredibly challenging chapter. Thank you to everyone who waited patiently, and those of you who encouraged me along the way. xo

_ “Dad? Hey, Dad, wake up!” _

_ Frank Castle opens his eyes as a shadow falls over him. He’s laying on the picnic blanket Maria had spread out earlier, and Frankie is standing above him excitedly. Frank squints up at him, shaking off the lingering tendrils of sleep. “What’s up, kid?" _

_ “Dad, can we get some cotton candy? Pleaaase?”  _

_ Frank huffs a laugh, sitting up. “You woke me up for some cotton candy?” _

_ “Well, Mom said it was up to you, so...yeah.” Frankie looks a little sheepish at that. “She also said you were napping, but she didn’t say  _ not _ to wake you up.” _

_ Frank stands, rolling his shoulders. He’s getting too old to lay on the ground like that, if the pain in his spine is any indication. He ruffles Frankie’s hair. “Alright, alright, let’s go.” _

_ He reaches out for his son’s hand, but the boy has disappeared. Frank looks around, confused, but he’s suddenly alone in the park. The children on the swingset a couple yards away are gone, the carousel is empty, and when he looks down, there’s a gun in his hand and blood on his clothes.  _

_ Frank recoils, and then-- _

The bedroom is quiet, except Frank’s labored breathing. He sits against the headboard and scrubs a hand over his head, trying to slow his breathing. Usually when he comes home on leave he’s too exhausted to remember his dreams, but this one had been different. There’s a sense of foreboding buried deep in his skull, and goosebumps are raised along his arms. The room is still semi-dark in the early morning, and a glance at the clock shows it’s barely six. An orange glow comes from the window. Frank pauses curiously. Maria always closes the blinds before bed--why would they be open? When he turns to ask her, her side of the bed is empty and cold. 

That’s when he hears it. A gunshot goes off, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think it was far off, outside the house, maybe down the street. Dread and panic tells him otherwise; he’s out of bed in a flash as another silenced gunshot goes off. His own gun is in his hand in seconds and he appears at the top of the stairs, alert. Frank lifts his arm and makes his way to the ground floor as fast as possible. 

It’s too late. When he reaches the living room, every joint in his body locks into place. There, in the middle of the floor, is his family. They’re lying in a heap; blood pools under them, spreading over the rug

_ (Maria loved that rug, loved it from the moment she saw it, told him he didn’t have to look at it if he hated it so much, now did he?) _

and soaking it through to the hardwood. 

Shock takes a hold of him. Frank thinks  _ no, this has to be another nightmare _ but he doesn’t wake up. Instead, someone else walks in from the kitchen and shouts upon seeing him. Frank shoots on instinct, lets out a guttural scream loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood. He doesn’t see the other men until it’s too late, until white-hot agony explodes in his temple. He swaggers forward to his knees, blankness shrouding his brain. Frank’s last thought is— _ I never got to ask her about the blinds _ —and then the ground races up to meet him. 

 

\--

 

When Frank learns the full story, it’s as he’s lying in a hospital bed. 

Upon waking, he feels a terrible, aching pain in his temple. His throat is sandpaper-dry, and it feels as if he hasn’t moved in weeks. Exhaustion settles into his bones like lead. There’s a soft beeping at his side, and when he finally opens his eyes, a familiar voice says his name. 

“Frank? Jesus, man, you with me?”

Curtis is standing at his hip, his face drawn and his worry evident. Frank swallows hard and searches the room. “Where are they?”

The look on Curtis’ face tell him everything. Panic grasps at Frank’s throat.

“Where are they, Curt?” He rasps, clutching at his sheets. “Where the fuck are they?”

“Frank, I--they’re gone.” Curtis reaches out, then lowers his arm. His eyes shine with a kind of anguish that reflects in his trembling words. “I’m so sorry. They’re gone.”

Frank closes his eyes and weeps. 

 

\--

 

\--

 

(A figure stalks through the street of Hell’s Kitchen, heedless of the rain that falls from above. It punctures the thick fabric of his vest, runs down and drips onto his boots as he walks. He’s in no hurry, his glittering eyes following the three men ahead of him. Darkness shrouds the four of them, but he sees them in the weak streetlamps’ glow, can hear the splash of their feet with each puddle they run through. 

The figure revels in their fear, in the terrified glances they throw back towards him, in the gasps they pull as they attempt to get away. They turn into an alleyway, and the figure follows leisurely. He takes his time, feel the familiar bloodthirst clawing at him as they collide with a chain link fence. They’re trapped.

One had fallen back. He’s tripped and halfway to standing; the figure reaches down and snaps his neck with barely a flinch. 

The other two let out panicked screams, trapped against the fence too tall to scale. The rain is coming down in sheets now—the figure cuts through it like a knife. His eyes are wild, ferocious, unforgiving. He’s on them in moments, and their horrified shrieks last only moments until they, too, land in gathered water on the cement. 

The figure turns in a tight circle, surveying the chaos. Blood mingles with the rain at his feet. A crack of lightning illuminates his work for the briefest of moments. 

After another moment’s observation, Frank Castle yanks up his hood and steps out of the alleyway into the night.)

 

\-- **one year later;**

 

The taste of basement coffee is bitter in his mouth. Frank sits with his legs kicked out in front of him as the room clears out. Several people pass by him and offer up small nods or smiles on their way to the door. As he waits, Frank listens to Curtis’ quiet conversations. Each is personal, soft encouragements meant to last through the week, until the next group meeting gathers. By the time the last person has gone, his coffee is just grit at the bottom of his paper cup. Frank stands and tosses it. He begins folding up chairs. 

This is all part of his routine. Work two jobs to keep himself busy, spend one afternoon a week in a musty basement listening to other veterans talk. Wait for it to be over, clean up the mess, do it all over again. 

“You didn’t talk today,” Curtis observes, joining him. He says the same thing every week, with the same non-abrasive tone, with the same even gaze. 

Frank focuses on his task. Pick up, fold, hang. He doesn’t look over. “Didn’t sleep well,” he says finally, voice hoarse. 

“Nightmares again?”

“Don’t ever stop,” Frank mutters, grabbing the next chair. Curtis makes a small noise of assent across the room. The room falls into silence, save for the steadily clicking clock above the door and their quiet breathing. 

“Want to talk about it?” Curtis asks after some time as passed. 

Frank grunts; the last thing he wants to do is relive his nightmares during his waking hours. But this is what Curits does--he chips away until Frank caves, and then picks up the pieces afterwards. Today, Frank balks at the idea. He remembers vividly the dreams that had him tossing and turning the night before, and just the thought of them sickens him. Curtis seems to understand, as he doesn’t speak again until they’re finished. 

They climb the stairs in silence, and then step onto the sidewalk outside. Curtis turns to look at him. “You gonna be alright?”

“Sure,” Frank says, even though they both know that’s not quite the truth. Curtis clasps his shoulder. 

“If you need me, you know how to find me. Alright? See you next week.”

“Thanks, Curt.” Frank throws up his hood and gives his friend the ghost of a smile. He turns and sets off down the sidewalk, and feels Curtis’ eyes on his back until he’s turned the corner. 

 

\--

 

It’s later on that week that, for what seems like the hundredth time in his life, Frank Castle’s world shifts on its axis. 

He’s sitting in the same diner he always is. He sits in the same booth with his back to the door, and the same waitress takes his order and sets a cup of coffee at his elbow. He’s reading the same paper--The Bulletin--but this time he stares down at page 4’s article in muted shock.  **Castle House Set for Demolition,** it reads. The words jump out of the page at him, and suddenly the familiar sounds of the diner have faded away to a dull roar.

Frank’s finger taps on the table restlessly. There’s a panicked chokehold around his throat, something that makes his breath come a little harder.  _ It’s being demolished,  _ he thinks, and then,  _ Good. _

Frank pictures three figures covered in blood, sees his own failures, remembers waking up in that hospital room as a widower and--and what? What do you call someone who has lost his children, his entire world, his entire being? What do you call someone who couldn’t protect his family when it matters most? Frank’s eyes rip from the title and skim over the article. It mentions how the house has stood empty for years, how the bank has reclaimed it, how it’s going to be torn down and rebuilt into something else. 

_ You need to go back,  _ his mind whispers.  _ One more time. You owe it to them.  _

Or does he owe it to them to leave them in peace? To never return, let the house be destroyed? Frank closes his eyes, and can’t help the memories that surface: Lisa helping him paint her room; etching the kid’s heights into the wall beside the stairs; making breakfast for Maria before she could climb out of bed. Cookouts in the backyard, and sitting before the fire opening presents during the holidays. Each memory slices through him, squeezing more and more anguish out of his chest. He thinks he’ll crumble from it. 

“You okay, hun?” 

Frank opens his eyes, turns to look at the waitress. She’s balancing his plate of food in one hand, and has another hand reached out towards him in concern. 

“Yeah, just uh--just a headache.” Frank clears his throat, dashing at the wetness on his cheeks. “Thanks, ma’am.”

“Sure.” She deposits the plate, gives him one more worried glance, and then heads back for the kitchen. 

Frank doesn’t touch the food, can’t. His stomach twists and tumbles with each new breath, and he scans the title once more, decision forming. 

He has to go back. 

 

\--

 

When Frank pulls up to the house the next day, it’s quiet--and absolutely, positively,  _ not _ being demolished. 

He sits in his van on the street and shuts the engine off, suspicion biting at him. There’s no one outside, but a sleek black sedan is parked in the driveway. On either side of the porch, someone has planted flowers. The door has been painted a dark blue. The lawn has been cut. Someone is living here. Someone wanted him to come here. Someone is looking for him.

Frank taps the steering wheel, scanning the face of the house slowly. He furrows his brows, trying to think past the panic being here brings. Someone is trying to lure him out here--but why? It could be the person living here. It could be a reporter, trying to get a story. Or--some darker part of his mind supplies--it could be the robbers’ friends, trying to get back at him for punishing the people who took his family from him. 

_ There’s only one way to find out, _ he decides, pocketing his keys. He checks that his gun is still secure on his belt, and then steps out of the car cautiously. 

No bullets, yet. Emboldened, Frank starts up towards the house. It looms over him, windows staring down at him almost in accusation. By the time he reaches the porch, he’s almost talked himself out of this. The sign hanging on the door is what stop him--it’s something Maria picked out in some HomeGoods store years ago, back when he was still in the service. 

_ So you would always find your way home, _ she’d said when she hung it up.  _ Back to us.  _

Frank’s eyes rake over the sign, a little piece of wood carved into the shape of a plane. Maria had told him it reminded her of him, and she had hand painted  _ Welcome Home _ over it. She would hang it just before he boarded the plane home, and upon seeing it he’d always been filled with a profound sense of relief. Seeing it now gives him a mixture of emotions, but stronger than the rest--curiosity. 

Frank raises his hand and knocks. 

 

\--

 

For the second time in two days, Frank’s world has turned upside down and dumped him in a shocked heap. 

He stands, shoulder to shoulder with Karen Page, and stares at where his wife had been. The house is disturbingly quiet save for their soft breathing, and Frank doesn’t know how long passes before Karen speaks. It’s long enough for him to think that he’s dreaming, or maybe that he’s finally lost his mind from grief.

“Want some coffee?” she asks softly. 

Frank startles out of his thoughts, and then nods. He can’t trust himself to speak, but Karen doesn’t seem to mind. She unravels their hands and steps towards the kitchen. Frank finds himself taking the stairs, almost as if pushed by an invisible hand. The first room he steps into is the bathroom where he would comb Frankie’s hair in the mornings before school; he splashes cold water over his face and squints into the mirror. The man looking back at him is pale, his eyes rimmed with red. He certainly looks as if he’s lost his mind. Frank dries his face and takes a steadying, experimental breath. 

There’s a lightness in his chest that wasn’t there before. Almost as if a great weight has been lifted off of him, and he’s finally getting the first real breath he’s had in years. 

He steps out of the bathroom, and then into Lisa’s room. He doesn’t know what he expected--it’s been painted over a soft gray, and there’s a work desk against the far wall. Her room has been transformed into a study, and Frank trails his eyes over the new furniture slowly, imagining a small twin sized bed and a sticker-covered dresser. The room feels out of place with her things in it, but the loss is less of a sharp edge than before. When he turns to leave the room, he stops short. 

The fourth wall is exactly as he remembers. Same paint, same stickers in various places, same taped up artwork, same owl wallpaper. Karen had left just one wall up, almost like a shrine. It’s overwhelming to look at, to see the evidence of his daughter after all these years, but Frank looks nonetheless. Downstairs, he can hear Karen moving around in the kitchen, and he’s struck by her kindness, by the empathy she’s shown him and his family. 

He’s determined to finish his tour of the home. By the time he’s gone through Frankie’s room and the master bedroom, Frank feels both lifted and weighed down. He’s exhausted, but seeing his family again, hearing their reassurances, seeing their home after so long--it’s given him peace he thought he’d never feel again. 

He joins Karen back in the kitchen and watches as she pours them both a cup of coffee. She throws him subtle little glances when she thinks he’s not looking; each one filled with a mixture of nervousness, kindness, empathy. When she finally asks,  _ Was this the right thing to do? _ Frank is struck by the question. 

For a moment, he’s unsure of what to say. How can he tells this woman who had taken up the mantle of protecting his family when he couldn’t, how much he owed to her? How could he sit here and explain to her that never in a million years could he repay her for giving him one last moment with his family? How could he profess to her that she had given him just a shred of hope back into his life?

Frank is suddenly aware of how much he wants to know the woman in front of him. He wants to know how she can do what she does. He’s greedy to hear what other conversations she’s had with his family. And--another small part of his mind thinks--what she thinks he should do now. The last thing he wants to do is leave, and lose the one last connection he has to his family. 

Finally, Frank gives her a small smile, the first real smile he’s felt in months. “Tell you the truth, I could use something a little stronger than coffee.”

 

\--

**Three Years Later;**

\--

 

Every year, Frank Castle thinks he’ll get lost trying to navigate Hell’s Kitchen’s cemetery. Rows after rows of tombstones border the pathways, all perfectly aligned. They seem to go on for miles. He knows in a city this size, the dead must outnumber the living in thousands. That doesn’t stop his awe at how large the cemeteries are. Nonetheless, his feet always takes him to the right section, to the large plot of land where his family is buried. 

It’s been eight year today since they were killed. Time has slowly given him the strength to come here without tears, without caving in on himself. Frank kneels and brushes his fingers over the names chiseled into the granite:  _ Maria Castle, Frank Castle Jr, Lisa Castle.  _ The names look freshly carved, as if it hasn’t been nearly a decade. Grass crunches under his knees as he shifts; it’s humid today, but the last week has been dry, oppressive heat. When his skin touches the marble, it’s slick with moisture. Frank bows his head and takes a deep breath. Being here always brings out a curious cocktail of emotions--sadness, pain, guilt--but most of all, relief. Relief because he knows they’re at peace, and that he’s finding his own, day by day. 

Footsteps on the soft ground pull him out of his thoughts. Frank glances back at the woman behind him. Karen Page is dressed in jeans and a blouse, her hair tucked behind her ear. In her arms, she cradles a large bouquet of flowers. She gives him a small smile, kneeling at his side. 

“Tell me a story about them,” Karen says softly. She places the flowers in her hand at the foot of the gravestone, and then turn to look at him. “Something happy.”

She never tires of hearing about them. At every turn, she is pulling more and more out of him, more happy memories to bury his guilt. Frank searches her face for any sign of frustration or exasperation, but like always she is simply happy to be here for him.  _ With _ him. Frank turns back to the stone in consideration. “Hm...like the time the kids almost burned down the house tryin’ to cook Mother’s Day breakfast?”

Karen laughs affectionately. “That’s a new one. Tell me that one.”

Without a second thought, Frank reaches out and takes her hand. Karen’s fingers intertwine with his, reminiscent of that first afternoon back in the house. He can’t help his smile. “Thank you,” he says quietly, suddenly overcome with gratitude for her, “you did this. You--you did so much for us. You still do.”

Karen squeezes his hand tightly. “I love you,” she murmurs. “I would do it all over again.”

Frank knows she would. In fact, she does. In the past three years she has connected countless people with their loved ones, and helped so many others find peace. Her selflessness surprises and warms him with every passing day, and he is always in awe of her. Frank wishes, not for the first time, that he could express his gratitude for her the way she deserves. Instead, he simply says, “They’d be happy you’re here.”

Karen knocks his shoulder with hers lightly. She looks a little misty-eyed, but her smile is bright. “I’m glad,” she says, “So, you going to tell me that story or what?”

Frank laughs, squeezing her fingers. 

“Alright, alright. So I wake up one mornin’, and immediately I smell smoke…”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thank you so, so much for reading--as always, I would love to hear your thoughts here or on tumblr! :)


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